Harry Potter 1 Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

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HP 1 - Harry Potter and the
Sorcerer's Stone
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
Harry Potter
&
The Sorcerer’s Stone
by J.K. Rowling

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HP 1 - Harry Potter and the
Sorcerer's Stone

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CHAPTER ONE
THE BOY WHO LIVED
M r. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say
that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people
you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just
didn’t hold with such nonsense.
           Mr.  Dursley  was  the  director  of  a  firm  called  Grunnings,  which  made
drills.  He  was  a  big,  beefy  man  with  hardly  any  neck,  although  he  did  have  a
very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the
usual  amount  of  neck,  which  came  in  very  useful  as  she  spent  so  much  of  her
time  craning  over  garden  fences,  spying  on  the  neighbors.  The  Dursleys  had  a
small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and
their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think they
could  bear  it  if  anyone  found  out  about  the  Potters.  Mrs.  Potter  was  Mrs.
Dursley’s  sister,  but  they  hadn’t  met  for  several  years;  in  fact,  Mrs.  Dursley
pretended  she  didn’t  have  a  sister,  because  her  sister  and  her  good-for-nothing
husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered
to  think  what  the  neighbors  would  say  if  the  Potters  arrived  in  the  street.  The
Dursleys  knew  that  the  Potters  had  a  small  son,  too,  but  they  had  never  even
seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they
didn’t want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story
starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and
mysterious  things  would  soon  be  happening  all  over  the  country.  Mr.  Dursley
hummed  as  he  picked  out  his  most  boring  tie  for  work,  and  Mrs.  Dursley
gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
           At  half  past  eight,  Mr.  Dursley  picked  up  his  briefcase,  pecked  Mrs.
Dursley  on  the  cheek,  and  tried  to  kiss  Dudley  good-bye  but  missed,  because
Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.
“Little  tyke,”  chortled  Mr.  Dursley  as  he  left  the  house.  He  got  into  his  car
and backed out of number four’s drive.
           It  was  on  the  corner  of  the  street  that  he  noticed  the  first  sign  of

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something  peculiar  —  a  cat  reading  a  map.  For  a  second,  Mr.  Dursley  didn’t
realize what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There
was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in
sight.  What  could  he  have  been  thinking  of?  It  must  have  been  a  trick  of  the
light.  Mr.  Dursley  blinked  and  stared  at  the  cat.  It  stared  back.  As  Mr.  Dursley
drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was
now  reading  the  sign  that  said  Privet  Drive  —  no,  looking  at  the  sign;  cats
couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the
cat  out  of  his  mind.  As  he  drove  toward  town  he  thought  of  nothing  except  a
large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something
else.  As  he  sat  in  the  usual  morning  traffic  jam,  he  couldn’t  help  noticing  that
there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr.
Dursley  couldn’t  bear  people  who  dressed  in  funny  clothes  —  the  getups  you
saw  on  young  people!  He  supposed  this  was  some  stupid  new  fashion.  He
drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these
weirdos  standing  quite  close  by.  They  were  whispering  excitedly  together.  Mr.
Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that
man  had  to  be  older  than  he  was,  and  wearing  an  emerald-green  cloak!  The
nerve  of  him!  But  then  it  struck  Mr.  Dursley  that  this  was  probably  some  silly
stunt  —these  people  were  obviously  collecting  for  something…yes,  that  would
be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the
Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the
ninth  floor.  If  he  hadn’t,  he  might  have  found  it  harder  to  concentrate  on  drills
that  morning.  He  didn’t  see  the  owls  swooping  past  in  broad  daylight,  though
people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after
owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr.
Dursley,  however,  had  a  perfectly  normal,  owl-free  morning.  He  yelled  at  five
different  people.  He  made  several  important  telephone  calls  and  shouted  a  bit
more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch
his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.
He’d for gotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of
them  next  to  the  baker’s.  He  eyed  them  angrily  as  he  passed.  He  didn’t  know
why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and
he  couldn’t  see  a  single  collecting  tin.  It  was  on  his  way  back  past  them,
clutching  a  large  doughnut  in  a  bag,  that  he  caught  a  few  words  of  what  they
were saying.
“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard —”

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“ — yes, their son, Harry —”
           Mr.  Dursley  stopped  dead.  Fear  flooded  him.  He  looked  back  at  the
whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his
secretary  not  to  disturb  him,  seized  his  telephone,  and  had  almost  finished
dialing  his  home  number  when  he  changed  his  mind.  He  put  the  receiver  back
down  and  stroked  his  mustache,  thinking…no,  he  was  being  stupid.  Potter
wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter
who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew
was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or
Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at
any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if he’d had a sister like that…
but all the same, those people in cloaks.…
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when
he left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight
into someone just outside the door.
“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was
a  few  seconds  before  Mr.  Dursley  realized  that  the  man  was  wearing  a  violet
cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the
contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made
passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today!
Rejoice,  for  You-Know-Who  has  gone  at  last!  Even  Muggles  like  yourself
should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete
stranger.  He  also  thought  he  had  been  called  a  Muggle,  whatever  that  was.  He
was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining
things,  which  he  had  never  hoped  before,  because  he  didn’t  approve  of
imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw —
and it didn’t improve his mood — was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning. It
was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the
same markings around its eyes.
“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.
The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat
behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself
into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all
about  Mrs.  Next  Door’s  problems  with  her  daughter  and  how  Dudley  had

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learned a new word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley
had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report
on the evening news:
“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s
owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at
night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings
of  these  birds  flying  in  every  direction  since  sunrise.  Experts  are  unable  to
explain  why  the  owls  have  suddenly  changed  their  sleeping  pattern.”  The
newscaster  allowed  himself  a  grin.  “Most  mysterious.  And  now,  over  to  Jim
McGuffin  with  the  weather.  Going  to  be  any  more  showers  of  owls  tonight,
Jim?”
“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not
only  the  owls  that  have  been  acting  oddly  today.  Viewers  as  far  apart  as  Kent,
Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I
promised  yesterday,  they’ve  had  a  downpour  of  shooting  stars!  Perhaps  people
have been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s not until next week, folks! But
I can promise a wet night tonight.”
Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain?
Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a
whisper, a whisper about the Potters.…
Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was
no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er
— Petunia, dear — you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?”
As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all,
they normally pretended she didn’t have a sister.
“No,” she said sharply. “Why?”
           “Funny  stuff  on  the  news,”  Mr.  Dursley  mumbled.  “Owls…shooting
stars…and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today.…”
“So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley.
           “Well,  I  just  thought…maybe…it  was  something  to  do  with…you
know…her crowd.”
Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered
whether  he  dared  tell  her  he’d  heard  the  name  “Potter.”  He  decided  he  didn’t
dare.  Instead  he  said,  as  casually  as  he  could,  “Their  son  —  he’d  be  about
Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.
“What’s his name again? Howard, isn’t it?”
“Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me.”
           “Oh,  yes,”  said  Mr.  Dursley,  his  heart  sinking  horribly.  “Yes,  I  quite

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agree.”
He didn’t say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed.
While  Mrs.  Dursley  was  in  the  bathroom,  Mr.  Dursley  crept  to  the  bedroom
window  and  peered  down  into  the  front  garden.  The  cat  was  still  there.  It  was
staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.
           Was  he  imagining  things?  Could  all  this  have  anything  to  do  with  the
Potters? If it did...if it got out that they were related to a pair of — well, he didn’t
think he could bear it.
           The  Dursleys  got  into  bed.  Mrs.  Dursley  fell  asleep  quickly  but  Mr.
Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought
before  he  fell  asleep  was  that  even  if  the  Potters  were  involved,  there  was  no
reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well
what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind....He couldn’t see how he
and  Petunia  could  get  mixed  up  in  anything  that  might  be  going  on  —  he
yawned and turned over — it couldn’t affect them.…
How very wrong he was.
Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on
the  wall  outside  was  showing  no  sign  of  sleepiness.  It  was  sitting  as  still  as  a
statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn’t so
much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls
swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.
A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so
suddenly  and  silently  you’d  have  thought  he’d  just  popped  out  of  the  ground.
The cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall,
thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both
long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that
swept  the  ground,  and  high-heeled,  buckled  boots.  His  blue  eyes  were  light,
bright,  and  sparkling  behind  half-moon  spectacles  and  his  nose  was  very  long
and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man’s name was
Albus Dumbledore.
           Albus  Dumbledore  didn’t  seem  to  realize  that  he  had  just  arrived  in  a
street  where  everything  from  his  name  to  his  boots  was  unwelcome.  He  was
busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize
he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still
staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the
cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.”
He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a
silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The

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nearest  street  lamp  went  out  with  a  little  pop.  He  clicked  it  again  —  the  next
lamp  flickered  into  darkness.  Twelve  times  he  clicked  the  Put-Outer,  until  the
only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which
were  the  eyes  of  the  cat  watching  him.  If  anyone  looked  out  of  their  window
now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to see anything that
was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back
inside  his  cloak  and  set  off  down  the  street  toward  number  four,  where  he  sat
down  on  the  wall  next  to  the  cat.  He  didn’t  look  at  it,  but  after  a  moment  he
spoke to it.
“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”
He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at
a  rather  severe-looking  woman  who  was  wearing  square  glasses  exactly  the
shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a
cloak,  an  emerald  one.  Her  black  hair  was  drawn  into  a  tight  bun.  She  looked
distinctly ruffled.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked.
“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”
           “You’d  be  stiff  if  you’d  been  sitting  on  a  brick  wall  all  day,”  said
Professor McGonagall.
“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a
dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
“Oh yes, I’ve celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently. “You’d think
they’d  be  a  bit  more  careful,  but  no  —even  the  Muggles  have  noticed
something’s  going  on.  It  was  on  their  news.”  She  jerked  her  head  back  at  the
Dursleys’  dark  living-room  window.  “I  heard  it.  Flocks  of  owls…shooting
stars…Well,  they’re  not  completely  stupid.  They  were  bound  to  notice
something. Shooting stars down in Kent — I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He
never had much sense.”
“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. “We’ve had precious
little to celebrate for eleven years.”
“I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. “But that’s no reason
to  lose  our  heads.  People  are  being  downright  careless,  out  on  the  streets  in
broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors.”
           She  threw  a  sharp,  sideways  glance  at  Dumbledore  here,  as  though
hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A fine
thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared
at  last,  the  Muggles  found  out  about  us  all.  I  suppose  he  really  has  gone,
Dumbledore?”

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“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful
for. Would you care for a lemon drop?”
“A what?”
“A lemon drop. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of.”
“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t
think this was the moment for lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who
has gone —”
“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by
his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense — for eleven years I have been
trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.” Professor
McGonagall  flinched,  but  Dumbledore,  who  was  unsticking  two  lemon  drops,
seemed  not  to  notice.  “It  all  gets  so  confusing  if  we  keep  saying  ‘You-Know-
Who.’  I  have  never  seen  any  reason  to  be  frightened  of  saying  Voldemort’s
name.”
           “I  know  you  haven’t,  said  Professor  McGonagall,  sounding  half
exasperated,  half  admiring.  “But  you’re  different.  Everyone  knows  you’re  the
only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.”
“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort had powers I will
never have.”
“Only because you’re too — well — noble to use them.”
“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey
told me she liked my new earmuffs.”
Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said “The
owls  are  nothing  next  to  the  rumors  that  are  flying  around.  You  know  what
they’re saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most
anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all
day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a
piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone” was saying,
she  was  not  going  to  believe  it  until  Dumbledore  told  her  it  was  true.
Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.
           “What  they’re  saying,”  she  pressed  on,  “is  that  last  night  Voldemort
turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily
and James Potter are — are — that they’re — dead.”
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.
           “Lily  and  James…I  can’t  believe  it…I  didn’t  want  to  believe  it…Oh,
Albus…”
           Dumbledore  reached  out  and  patted  her  on  the  shoulder.  “I  know…I
know…” he said heavily.

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Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all.
They’re  saying  he  tried  to  kill  the  Potter’s  son,  Harry.  But  he  couldn’t.  He
couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying that
when  he  couldn’t  kill  Harry  Potter,  Voldemort’s  power  somehow  broke  —  and
that’s why he’s gone.”
Dumbledore nodded glumly.
“It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all he’s done…
all the people he’s killed…he couldn’t kill a little boy? It’s just astounding…of
all the things to stop him…but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?”
“We can only guess.” said Dumbledore. “We may never know.”
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her
eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden
watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve
hands  but  no  numbers;  instead,  little  planets  were  moving  around  the  edge.  It
must  have  made  sense  to  Dumbledore,  though,  because  he  put  it  back  in  his
pocket and said, “Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by
the way?”
“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to
tell me why you’re here, of all places?”
“I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family
he has left now.”
           “You  don’t  mean  –  you  can’t  mean  the  people  who  live  here?”  cried
Professor  McGonagall,  jumping  to  her  feet  and  pointing  at  number  four.
“Dumbledore — you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find
two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son — I saw him kicking
his  mother  all  the  way  up  the  street,  screaming  for  sweets.  Harry  Potter  come
and live here!”
           “It’s  the  best  place  for  him,”  said  Dumbledore  firmly.  “His  aunt  and
uncle  will  be  able  to  explain  everything  to  him  when  he’s  older.  I’ve  written
them a letter.”
“A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on
the  wall.  “Really,  Dumbledore,  you  think  you  can  explain  all  this  in  a  letter?
These  people  will  never  understand  him!  He’ll  be  famous  —  a  legend  —  I
wouldn’t  be  surprised  if  today  was  known  as  Harry  Potter  day  in  the  future  —
there will be books written about Harry — every child in our world will know
his name!”
“Exactly.” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his
half-moon glasses. “It would be enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous before
he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won’t even remember! Can you

---

see how much better off he’ll be, growing up away from all that until he’s ready
to take it?”
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed,
and  then  said,  “Yes  —  yes,  you’re  right,  of  course.  But  how  is  the  boy  getting
here, Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might
be hiding Harry underneath it.
“Hagrid’s bringing him.”
“You think it — wise — to trust Hagrid with something as important as
this?”
“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore.
           “I’m  not  saying  his  heart  isn’t  in  the  right  place,”  said  Professor
McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can’t pretend he’s not careless. He does tend
to — what was that?”
           A  low  rumbling  sound  had  broken  the  silence  around  them.  It  grew
steadily  louder  as  they  looked  up  and  down  the  street  for  some  sign  of  a
headlight;  it  swelled  to  a  roar  as  they  both  looked  up  at  the  sky  —  and  a  huge
motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it.
He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He
looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy black
hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and
his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms
he was holding a bundle of blankets.
“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did
you get that motorcycle?”
           “Borrowed  it,  Professor  Dumbledore,  sir,”  said  the  giant,  climbing
carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve
got him, sir.”
“No problems, were there?”
“No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before
the  Muggles  started  swarmin’  around.  He  fell  asleep  as  we  was  flyin’  over
Bristol.”
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of
blankets.  Inside,  just  visible,  was  a  baby  boy,  fast  asleep.  Under  a  tuft  of  jet-
black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of
lightning.
“Is that where —?” whispered Professor McGonagall.
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.”
“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”

---

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself
above  my  left  knee  that  is  a  perfect  map  of  the  London  Underground.  Well  —
give him here, Hagrid — we’d better get this over with.”
           Dumbledore  took  Harry  in  his  arms  and  turned  toward  the  Dursleys’
house.
“Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his
great,  shaggy  head  over  Harry  and  gave  him  what  must  have  been  a  very
scratchy,  whiskery  kiss.  Then,  suddenly,  Hagrid  let  out  a  howl  like  a  wounded
dog.
“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “You’ll wake the Muggles!”
“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and
burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it —Lily an’ James dead — an’ poor
little Harry off ter live with Muggles —”
“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be
found,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as
Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He
laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside
Harry’s  blankets,  and  then  came  back  to  the  other  two.  For  a  full  minute  the
three  of  them  stood  and  looked  at  the  little  bundle;  Hagrid’s  shoulders  shook,
Professor  McGonagall  blinked  furiously,  and  the  twinkling  light  that  usually
shone from Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.
“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying
here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.”
“Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’ll be takin’ Sirius his bike
back. G’night, Professor McGonagall — Professor Dumbledore, sir.”
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself
onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the
air and off into the night.
           “I  shall  see  you  soon,  I  expect,  Professor  McGonagall,”  said
Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he
stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of
light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange
and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of
the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
           “Good  luck,  Harry,”  he  murmured.  He  turned  on  his  heel  and  with  a
swish of his cloak, he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy
under  the  inky  sky,  the  very  last  place  you  would  expect  astonishing  things  to

---

happen.  Harry  Potter  rolled  over  inside  his  blankets  without  waking  up.  One
small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was
special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few
hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the
milk  bottles,  nor  that  he  would  spend  the  next  few  weeks  being  prodded  and
pinched  by  his  cousin  Dudley....He  couldn’t  know  that  at  this  very  moment,
people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and
saying in hushed voices: “To Harry Potter — the boy who lived!”

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